


All Night Long

by jaybear1701



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: F/F, but suspend your disbelief plz, detective raelle, i clearly have some pent up rizzoli & isles feelings, medical examiner scylla, mfsweek, mild attempt at a murder mystery, non-magic au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaybear1701/pseuds/jaybear1701
Summary: One-night stands are supposed to be quick, easy, and forgettable.No strings attached.And they’re certainly not supposed to show up on your first day at work--your first crime scene, no less--with a roguish grin and sparkling blue eyes that are just as mesmerizing in the harsh light of day as they had been after four cocktails in a dive bar.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 104
Kudos: 491





	1. Chapter 1

One-night stands are supposed to be quick, easy, and forgettable. 

No strings attached. 

And they’re certainly not supposed to show up on your first day at work--your first _crime scene_ , no less--with a roguish grin and sparkling blue eyes that are just as mesmerizing in the harsh light of day as they had been after four cocktails in a dive bar.

"Oh,” is all Scylla can manage to breathe out when Dr. Izadora L’Amara aka the medical examiner aka Scylla’s _boss for the next year_ introduces her to Raelle Collar. _Detective_ Raelle Collar of the Salem Police Department. It should be illegal for someone to look _that_ good in black slacks and a form-fitting blue oxford rolled part-way up her forearms. 

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Ramshorn,” Raelle drawls as they shake hands, her grip lingering perhaps a second longer than necessary. “Again.” Her blonde hair--braided on one side like it had been on Saturday night--practically glows in the sun, and Scylla tamps down the memory of how much better it looked as a golden halo spread across a pillow.

“The pleasure’s mine,” Scylla says and then inwardly cringes when Raelle’s grin widens into shit-eating. She could have phrased it better. Much better. 

“I didn’t realize you two already knew each other,” Izadora says, arching one eyebrow.

“We’re acquainted.” Raelle winks at Scylla, whose cheeks burn. At least Scylla could blame it on the stubborn heat of the late summer.

Izadora hums as she makes her way to the bodies. Raelle follows after with Scylla in tow, past a small crowd of curious onlookers and a television news crew that’s setting up their camera and mic’ing up their reporter.

They approach an alleyway barricaded with yellow police tape, which Raelle pulls up to allow Scylla and Izadora to duck underneath. 

“What do we have?” Izadora asks as Raelle leads them to the crime scene where three victims await, bodies arranged in a perverse triangle.

“Triple homicide,” Raelle answers. “And one we’ve identified as Constance Treefine, so you can imagine the press will have a field day if that gets out. Still waiting to confirm the identities of the others.”

“Treefine?” Scylla asks.

“A member of one of Salem’s oldest and wealthiest High Atlantic families,” Izadora explains.

Around them, patrol officers and crime scene investigators bustle about collecting evidence. 

“Think the cause of death is pretty obvious,” Raelle says. 

“We’ll be the judge of that, Detective Collar, thank you very much.” Izadora crouches down next to the closest victim and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. Scylla and Raelle follow suit. “Male, 40s,” Izadora says.“Ramshorn?”

“His larynx has been extracted.” Scylla prods at the wound carefully with a gloved finger. “The cuts are clean. Precise. Almost… professional. No signs of hemorrhaging, which is unusual. Cause of death unclear.”

Izadora nods in approval.

“If you say so, beautiful.” Raelle shrugs. 

Izadora returns to a standing position. “Dr. Ramshorn, complete your preliminary examinations and meet me back at the station.” She eyes Raelle. “And Detective Collar, please remember to be professional. Lest I have another conversation with Sergeant Quartermaine.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Raelle gives her a jaunty salute before turning all her attention back to Scylla, who pretends she’s not there as she continues a visual examination of the bodies. 

She notices a patch of red skin behind the victim’s ear and carefully lifts his lobe. “There’s some kind of marking here.” Scylla points at a black symbol of what appears to be a complicated sigil. “A tattoo, perhaps.”

“Fresh by the looks of it,” Raelle says before waving someone over. “Tal, get a shot of this.” 

One of the investigators with a DSLR approaches, a woman with long red hair tied in a ponytail. She crouches down and snaps a photo, the camera’s light flashing. 

“Fascinating,” she exclaims. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” She looks up and smiles at Scylla. “And I’ve not seen you before either.”

“Oh, sorry,” Raelle says. “Tally, this is our newest pathologist, Dr. Scylla Ramshorn. Dr. Ramshorn, this is Tally Craven, one of our best CSIs.” 

“Nice to meet you, Tally. I’d shake your hand, but...” Scylla raises her contaminated gloves. 

“No worries.” Tally nods in understanding. “Scylla’s a really beautiful name. Greek, right?” She tilts her head toward Raelle. “Didn’t you say you met a Scylla the other night?”

Heat prickles across the back of Scylla’s neck.

Raelle clears her throat. “Just a coincidence.”

“Huh,” Tally says. “Well, welcome aboard, Scylla. Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for ya.”

She pops back up and wanders over to take photos of the other victims, leaving Raelle and Scylla together in an awkward silence. Raelle looks like she wants to say something more, but she doesn’t. Thankfully. 

“I’ll let you get to it, Doc,” Raelle says before she walks away to confer with other officers.

And Scylla lets out a breath of relief, grateful that she can finally focus on the task at hand. She tries her best to ignore the occasional looks Raelle throws her way. 

  
  


***

  
  


Several hours later, Scylla's on her way to the morgue, eager to begin the autopsies. This is where she thrives, alone with her work, disengaging from emotions and focusing on science to uncover secrets from the dead that only she can find. To bring them justice. And, she hopes, a modicum of peace.

She doesn't expect to bump into Ralle at the elevator, waiting for the car to arrive. 

“So, Doc, you left super early yesterday," Raelle says. "Missed out on some mean chocolate-chip pancakes.”

She has to nip this in the bud. Pronto.

“Let me stop you right there, Detective,” Scylla interrupts. “Saturday night was… fun." That's an understatement. Mind-blowing is more like it. Earth shattering. Game changing. "But nothing more. And the sooner we put it behind us, the better.”

Raelle’s smile falls from her all too-attractive face. “Sure, of course.” 

Scylla inwardly curses.

And that's that.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Or so she thinks. 

Every once in a while, Raelle stops by the morgue to check on the “windpipe” case--Raelle insists on that description even though Scylla has thoroughly explained that the trachea and the larynx, despite their proximity, are two very different anatomical parts. 

Raelle's professional and polite, despite Scylla's rejection, but doesn't quite get the memo that she's not supposed to be charming or cute or adorable.

One day, Raelle sets down a disposable cup of coffee on Scylla’s desk and pushes it toward her. A familiar logo adorns its sleeve: two coffee beans in a V-shape to form a heart. It’s from Scylla’s favorite shop, nowhere near the precinct. 

"Kona, no cream, one sugar," Raelle props her hip on the desk. "I've heard on the grapevine it's your favorite."

"Are you stalking me, Detective?"

"Stalking?" Raelle mimes being stabbed in the heart. "You wound me, Doc. It's called gathering intel."

"Gathering intel," Scylla repeats, leaning back in her chair. She'd prefer to keep Raelle at arm's length, but a small part of her feels flattered anyway, an unwelcome warmth spreading through her chest.

"Learning about a new colleague."

"Temporary colleague. The fellowship's only one year."

"Still plenty of time for us to get to know each other better. And there are much easier ways than me tracking down your coffee order. Like, lunch? Or dinner?"

Scylla has to shut this down.

"Detective Collar."

"Raelle."

"Sorry?"

"You can call me Raelle. Like you did when we met."

"Detective." Scylla’s face heats up, remembering _exactly_ how she had said Raelle’s name on that particular night. Had breathed it out like a prayer, and a curse. "You're sweet. But I don't date coworkers." 

_Let alone one-night stands._

"Who said anything about a date?" Raelle rubs her chin between her thumb and forefinger, just beneath the scar along her cheek that Scylla vividly remembers worshiping with her lips in the not-so-distant past. "You’ve gotta eat, don’t you? Or are you not friends with coworkers, either?”

Scylla rakes her teeth across her bottom lip, partly mortified by her assumption. 

“Tell ya what,” Raelle grins as she slides off the desk. “If you're ever in need of wholesome and completely platonic sustenance, you know where to find me."

Scylla picks up the coffee and removes the lid. She blows on it, breath skimming the heavenly brown liquid, and sips. It burns her tongue anyway.

***

  
  
  


"So, how are things?" Sergeant Anacostia Quartermaine takes a large bite of her turkey on wheat, elbows on her desk as she chews. 

Much like Anacostia, her office is practical, functional, and no-nonsense, with hardly any personal decorations except for a single picture frame on her painfully neat desk. In it is a photo of Anacostia and Scylla on her graduation day from medical school, both of them beaming at the camera.

Smiling at the memory, Scylla unwraps her own lunch, a vegetarian wrap. Extra mushrooms. "Not bad," she answers.

"Not bad?" Anacostia repeats. "We've got a serial killer on the loose and all you have to say about it is: not bad?"

"Fine, it's amazing," Scylla says in an overexaggerated manner. "A dream come true. In fact, it's beyond my wildest imaginings."

"And here you thought coming back home for your fellowship would be boring." Anacostia smiled. "You making any friends?"

Scylla waves that off, as she takes a bit of her wrap and mumbles, "I'm not here for that." 

"I know, but it wouldn't kill you to have some fun every once in a while." Anacostias waggles a potato chip at Scylla before popping it in her mouth.

Scylla stops mid-chew. "That's hilarious coming from you."

"Excuse you. I have fun."

"Your idea of fun is organizing your kitchen pantry by alphabetical order. You don't get to judge me."

"I'm not judging. I'm encouraging, as is my right as your guardian."

On the other side of the glass wall that partitions Anacostia's office from the rest of the detectives' desks, Scylla notices Raelle enter the room. She doesn’t take note of Scylla at first, but when their eyes lock, she gives her a slow smile that still makes Scylla’s stomach flutter despite the self-imposed distance she placed between them. And Anacotia--being the savvy detective that she is--notices Scylla noticing Raelle noticing Scylla.

"Not making friends, huh?" Anacostia has a knowing smile on her face. 

"We’re not friends," Scylla says perhaps too quickly.

“If you say so,” Anacostia says. “Collar is one of my best detectives, but…”

“But?”

“Just be careful with her,” Anacostia warns softly. “She’s not as tough as she’d like people to believe.” 

***

  
  
  


If there’s one thing Scylla learns about Raelle after her lunch with Anacostia, it’s that she definitely has quite the _reputation._ Not that Scylla’s going out of her way to “gather intel” on Raelle. Not in the slightest.

Raelle and her partner, Abigail Bellweather of the High Atlantic Bellweathers, are the two youngest detectives in the department. They’re on a hot streak for solving murders, but they also have a penchant for mayhem. Lots of mayhem. Rumor has it that they once managed to blow up two large trucks in the pursuit of a serial bomber, damaging parts of a newly paved stretch of highway. The mayor was, suffice it to say, far from pleased. Neither was Abigail’s mother, Chief of Police Petra Bellweather. Aside from their destructive tendencies, Raelle, apparently, is also notorious for charming the panties off half the women in the precinct and breaking hearts--if scuttlebutt can be believed. 

And Scylla takes it all as proof that she made the right decision to keep Raelle at arm’s length. Raelle is nothing but trouble disguised behind gorgeous blue eyes and a roguish smile. 

***

  
  
  


But Scylla also discovers Raelle is very much a study in contradiction. She plays hard, but works hard, too. On nights Scylla leaves late at night after a long day of autopsies or reports, Raelle’s always at her desk whenever Scylla walks past the detectives’ offices, typing furiously on her keyboard, candy bar wrappers and open cans of Red Bull sitting atop stacks of manila papers and folders.

One night, Scylla can’t resist and stops in the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

“These cases aren’t gonna solve themselves, Doc.” Raelle leans back in her chair, lips turning up, languid and easy. 

Scylla hates how Raelle’s smile still makes her heart skip a beat. “Detective, are you familiar with the law of diminishing returns?”

“Should I be?”

“Yes, for your well being,” Scylla says. “At some point, the benefits you gain from working start to decrease the more you overwork.” 

“Correct me if I’m wrong.” Raelle makes an exaggerated show of stretching out her arm and squinting at her wrist watch. It’s nearly midnight. “But it sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.”

Scylla rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, breaks are good every now and again.”

“Doctor’s orders?” Raelle winks.

“Yeah, doctor’s orders,” Scylla can’t help but smile. 

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Raelle accedes. “Though, if you’re offering to help me comply with those orders...”

And that’s Scylla’s cue to leave before she can do anything she might regret. Again. “Goodnight, Detective.”

  
  


***

  
  
  


The murders continue into the early fall. Always in the same pattern. Three unrelated victims, of every age, sex, race, national origin, religion, and socio-economic status, positioned to form a grotesque triangle. All with their vocal folds removed with minimal blood from the wound site. All with a different sigil tattooed somewhere on their bodies.

“Toxicology finally came back on the first victims.” Scylla hands a copy of the report to Abigail, adopting a neutral and professional tone that she hopes effectively masks her disappointment that a certain blonde detective is nowhere to be seen. “Each victim had etorphine, pentobarbital, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride in their systems.”

“And what does that mean in English?” Abigail frowns as she flips through the pages. 

“Etorphine is a tranquilizer. The others, when combined, are commonly used in lethal injections.” 

Abigail’s head shoots up. “Seriously?”

It’s then that Raelle rushes into the room and brushes past Scylla, a little worse for wear. She tucks her dress shirt in her pants, creases apparent against white, and tosses a wrinkled blazer on the back of her chair. It looks suspiciously like she’s wearing the same outfit as yesterday.

“Sorry, I’m late.” She sits and rolls her chair up to the desk. “Oh, hey there, Doc.” Self-consciously, Raelle combs her fingers through her hair, wincing when they snag against tangles. “Didn’t think you’d be visiting this early.”

“It’s almost noon,” Scylla points out.

Abigail gives Raelle an unimpressed once over. “You look like shit.” 

“Why, thank you, Bells. You always know how to make a girl feel special.”

Abigail gives her a flat stare. “Where have you been? Quartermaine would have had your ass if she didn’t have a meeting with the chief.”

Scylla bites the inside of her cheek at the mention of Anacostia. She wonders if anyone has put two-and-two together about their relationship. Not that they’ve been hiding it, per se.

“Had another all-nighter,” Raelle shrugs. “You know how those go.” 

Abigail just shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

Scylla’s unsure what an “all-nighter” entails, though she has an inkling. Her stomach twists slightly, even though she has no right to be bothered about whatever (or whomever) Raelle does. 

“Anyway, what were you guys talking about?” Raelle asks.

Abigail tosses the file to Raelle, who fumbles it slightly as she catches it. “Ramshorn here says the victims were drugged and executed.”

“Based on our findings, it’s plausible the victims were sedated and killed before their larynxes were removed,” Scylla explains. “That could explain the lack of blood around the extraction point.”

Raelle eyes the report. “So we could be dealing with a medical professional?”

“Assuming nothing was stolen or otherwise acquired through less than legal means,” Abigail says.

“Well, it’s more than what we had before,” Raelle smiles. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Oh, Scylla, there you are!” Tally bounds up to them from out of nowhere. “I swung by your office, but you weren’t there.”

“Sorry, Tally, I’m just finishing up with the detectives,” Scylla says. “Unless there’s anything else you two need?”

Abigail shakes her head. “Whoa, wait, your name is Scylla?”

“That’s right.”

Abigail’s gaze ping-pongs between Raelle, who looks ready to murder Abigail on the spot, and an increasingly embarrassed.Scylla, who wonders just how many people Raelle had told about their night together. For all she knows it’s the entire precinct. 

“Well." Abigail’s eyebrows rise. “That’s interesting.”

“Not as interesting as coffee,” Tally hooks her arm through Scylla’s.

“Wait, you’re having coffee together?” Raelle asks. She looks almost hurt, not that Scylla cares.

“That’s right.” Scylla smiles. “Tally Craven, let’s have that coffee.”

Tally beams as she pulls Scylla away. 

Scylla swears she can feel Raelle’s stare every step of the way. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


After another long Friday of autopsies, Scylla can’t wait to get back to her apartment and take a soak in a hot, hard-earned bubble bath. She’s almost to the front entrance when she nearly runs headfirst into Raelle, who’s sporting a busted lip and a bruise on her left cheek, just above her scar.

“Detective, what…” Scylla is at a loss of words, heart in her throat.

“Oh, hey, Doc,” Raelle tries to give her usual playful grin, but the effect is lost amid the shallow cuts along her chin and the dried blood caked around her nose. “Heading out?”

Worry claws at Scylla’s stomach. “Your face.” 

“Still pretty, right?”

Scylla places a hand on Raelle’s elbow and guides her to the side. “What happened? Are you okay?” She asks as Abigail pushes the doors open, probably with a little more force than necessary. Unlike Raelle, Abigail is unscathed, a deep scowl on her face.

“Long story,” Raelle says.

“She tried to stop a robbery without backup like a reckless maniac.” Abigail crosses her arms.

“Okay, maybe not so long,” Raelle admits.

Scylla frowns, unable to stop herself from brushing a few strands of blonde from Raelle’s face. “You should really get yourself checked out.”

“I’m fine,” Raelle protests. "Everyone's overreacting."

“Raelle," Scylla says, immediately grabbing Raelle's attention with her use of her first name. "Come with me. Let’s get you fixed up.”

The corner of Raelle's eyes crinkle in a pleased smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” Abigail huffs as she turns to leave. “Get her out of my sight, Ramshorn, before I kill her myself.”

Scylla leads Raelle back to her office near the morgue. Thankfully, it’s late enough that it’s empty. Dr. L’Amara had left hours before.

“Sit and wait here,” Scylla orders.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re hot when you’re bossy,” Raelle says, wincing as she lowers herself in a seat in front of Scylla’s desk.

Ignoring Raelle, Scylla enters the exam room to wet a washcloth, retrieve an ice pack from the freezer, and collect a first aid kit. When she returns, she sits in the chair next to Raelle and hands her the ice pack. Raelle presses it to the side of her head with a sigh.

Scylla begins cleaning the blood from Raelle’s face with gauze soaked with a saline solution. Although she takes extra care around Raelle’s wounds, she still winces in pain. 

“You really don’t have to do this,” Raelle insists, pink tinging her cheeks. 

“And you really don’t have to be reckless,” Scylla says, uncapping a tube of triple-antibiotic ointment, squeezing some on a cotton pledget, and applying it to Raelle’s cuts. “But here we are.”

“I’m not reckless,” Raelle insists as Scylla takes the ice pack so she can examine Raelle’s scalp. 

“Right, that’s why you’ve got a lump the size of a softball on your head.” Scylla’s fingers skim across Raelle’s braids, gently outlining a hematoma.

“Someone had to step in,” Raelle says with quiet conviction. “It was the right thing to do.”

Scylla bites back a lecture. It’s not her place to chastise Raelle or tell her how to do her job, even if she can’t quite shake the worry that’s weighing in the pit of her stomach. Instead, Scylla hands back the ice pack, picks up an otoscope, and shines a light into Raelle’s eyes. One pupil doesn’t constrict, confirming Scylla’s suspicions. 

“You have a concussion,” Scylla turns off the light.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Scylla sighs. “You should rest, but it'd be better if you stay up for a few hours.”

“You know, I might need some help staying up. What do you say, Doc?” Raelle waggles her eyebrows and Scylla can’t help but laugh because Raelle’s _incorrigible_.

"In your state, I doubt you'd be able to keep up with me," Scylla lightly teases. It’s not flirting, she tells herself. It’s harmless banter among colleagues.

"I like challenges." Raelle’s blue eyes are serious now, no longer joking, and Scylla finds she can’t breathe. Or look away.

"Collar!” Anacostia barks from the doorway, startling them both. “In my office. Now!"

"Some other time then,” Raelle says with a small smile before she leaves.

When she’s gone, Scylla slumps back in her chair, hand resting on her chest, wondering what in the hell she’s doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I clowned myself into believing I could finish this in time for MFSWeek while having a different pending WIP. I didn't make it, but I will do my best to post the rest of the story tomorrow and/or Friday. Hope you enjoy it!


	2. Chapter 2

Scylla's so engrossed in the latest issue of the _American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology_ that she doesn’t notice Tally enter her office until she plops herself in a seat on the other side of her desk.

“Good morning!” Tally greets.

“Morning.” Scylla smiles, closing the journal. “You’re up bright and early.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I think we might have a break in the Windpipe murders,” Tally waves a manila folder and Scylla grits her teeth that Raelle’s anatomically incorrect nickname is spreading. Even the news media has picked it up in their coverage, much to Scylla’s chagrin. “Thought maybe Raelle would be down here so I could share the news.” 

Scylla's brows knit together. "Why would she be down here?"

“Because you’re practically joined at the hip,” Tally says matter-of-factly, like, duh. 

The blaze on Scylla’s cheeks spreads fast and fierce. “T-that’s not,” she stutters. “We’re not joined at the hip.”

“That’s not what Sergeant Quartermaine says.” Tally shrugs. “Or Abigail. Or Dr. L’Amara. Should I go on?”

And because Raelle has the _worst_ timing in the whole world, that’s when she decides to stroll into Scylla’s office, bright and fresh, carrying two cups of coffee. Because _of course._

“Morning, Doc,” Raelle sets one cup down in front of Scylla as Tally lifts one, wholly amused eyebrow. “Tally, this is an unexpected surprise.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Tally smirks. Scylla wishes she could just disappear from this conversation.

“Wha?” Raelle looks confused as she sits next to Tally. 

“Nothing.” Tally eyes Scylla’s cup of shame before pouting at Raelle. “Hey, why don’t you ever bring me coffee?”

“One, you’re usually not in until later.” Raelle ticks off the points with her fingers. “Two, I know Gerit always makes you a snooty pourover, anyway. And, three, well I can’t think of a three. But you can have mine, if you’d like.”

Raelle offers her coffee to Tally, who shakes her head dramatically. “No, it’s fine if you like Scylla more.” Tally winks at Scylla, while Raelle flushes. “Besides, I’ll only stay long enough to share my news so you both can get back to your little coffee date.”

Raelle and Scylla both avoid making eye contact with each other, but neither corrects Tally’s assumption. Scylla’s pulse flutters as she reaches out for her coffee and takes a small sip. Kona, no cream, one sugar. Just like she likes it.

“So,” Raelle clears her throat. “What do you have?”

Tally scoots to the edge of her seat. "How much do you guys know about the history of Salem?"

“Honestly? Not much.” Scylla shrugs. “Which is sad given that my family apparently came over with the early settlers.” 

“Really!” Tally’s brows shoot up. “Let’s put a pin in that for now. How about the Salem Witch Trials?”

"The basics, really. I'm no expert." Scylla’s not sure where Tally’s going with this line of questioning, and neither does Raelle.

“What’s this have to do with the case, Tal?” Raelle asks.

Tally raises a finger. "Patience, my dear Collar. Patience. As you may recall, one of the first victims was Constance Treefine. Another, Benjamin Saint. And yet another was Kendall Swythe." 

"All High Atlantics," Raelle taps the lid of her cup. “Bells and I already questioned their families. Nothing but dead ends.”

Tally nods. "Right, but maybe you're talking to the wrong people. Those tattoos on the victims? They're sigils. Of demons." She pulls out a sheet of paper, and hands it to Scylla. Sure enough, it depicts the markings Scylla found on the bodies. 

"So you're saying, what?" Raelle asks when she gets the paper, tilting her head and flipping the paper.

"What if the killer is targeting people they think are 'evil' in some way. Like those rumored to be descended from the original Salem Witches. People like the High Atlantics." 

It's a common enough tall tale in Salem. One that even Scylla remembers from her time growing up in town, though she always suspected it was a myth perpetuated by High Atlantics themselves to enhance their own prestige. 

"But other victims weren't High Atlantics," Scylla points out.

"Also true! But, on a hunch, I ran a search and all of them are members of the Associated Daughters and Sons of Early American Witches. The name speaks for itself.” Tally pulls out yet another paper from her folder. This time it appears to be a roster, which she passes to Raelle.

Raelle squints at the list. "You're saying the killer is, what, some kind of witch...hunter?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but we're clearly not dealing with a sane person right now," Tally says. "This could be the key we need to find a common thread about who they’ve interacted with.”

“Like someone with access to potent chemicals,” Scylla says, impressed.

“Exactly!” Tally beams.

"This is incredible, Tal." Raelle hands the paper back and pulls out her phone. “I can’t wait to tell Bellweather.”

“I thought she was off today because she had a thing for her cousin’s wedding.”

“She does,” Raelle types out a quick text. “But she’ll want to know about this.”

“You know what we should do?” Tally’s eyes are round, excitement rolling off her in waves. “We should go out to celebrate this weekend.”

“Celebrate what?” Raelle asks. “We haven’t caught the asshole yet.”

“Celebrate our hard work,” Tally explains as if she’s talking to a child. “Boost morale. You know, rah-rah interdepartmental unity! What do you say?”

Raelle fidgets in her chair. “I mean, I’m game if Ramshorn’s in.”

They both turn to look at Scylla--Raelle cautiously optimistic, Tally openly hopeful and expectant. Scylla knows she should say no. But Tally's enthusiasm is utterly contagious, and her heart answers for her.

“Sure.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The pizza parlor is packed by the time Scylla arrives, the air teeming with conversation and the mouthwatering aroma of baked dough, tomato sauce, and cheese. Scylla nervously tucks her hands in her skinny jeans, worrying that perhaps she spent too much time on her makeup and hair and would look like she was trying too hard… and then feeling annoyed at herself for worrying in the first place. It’s just dinner with co-workers. No big deal.

She sees Raelle waving in the distance, beckoning her to a booth tucked in a relatively secluded corner of the restaurant.

"Glad you made it, Doc.” Raelle smiles, as attractive in casual jeans and a navy flannel shirt as she is in her work suits. “I wasn't sure you'd show up."

The truth is, Scylla almost backed out. Had even dreamed up a fairly plausible excuse to back out. But it’s been several days since she last saw Raelle and, the truth is, Scylla might have missed her. Just a bit. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Scylla says as she slips out of her black leather jacket and hangs it on a nearby hook. She feels the heat of Raelle’s azure gaze skimming down the length of her outfit, and Scylla’s secretly pleased she chose to wear her favorite blouse, the one that clings to her curves just right. 

“The others should be here soon." Raelle averts her eyes and polishes off the last bit of beer in her glass. 

Their waitress, a pretty brunette with green eyes, slides up to the table and sets down a basket of breadsticks and a couple of saucers. “Can I get you another, miss? And something for your girlfriend?” She winks at Scylla.

“Oh.” Raelle’s eyes widen. “Um, we’re not…”

“I’d love a Pinot Grigio, if you have one,” Scylla answers smoothly. The way Raelle’s mouth drops open makes the fib worth it.

“Coming right up!” The server whisks away Raelle’s empty glass and goes to get the rest of their order.

“Sometimes it’s just easier to let people assume,” Scylla says off Raelle’s questioning look.

“Fair game.” Raelle bobs her head. “Well, as your presumed girlfriend for the night, can I say how nice you look?”

“Why, thank you,” Scylla says, appreciating how Raelle’s shirt brings out the blue in her eyes. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Detective.”

“Now, none of that.” Raelle wags a finger. “We’re both off-duty. It’s Raelle or else I’m fake breaking up with you.”

“Okay,” Scylla acquiesces. “Raelle.”

The pleased smile that stretches across Raelle’s face makes Scylla’s stomach swoop.

A cell phone buzzes, and Raelle fishes it from her pocket. “Sorry.” The corners of her lips turn downward. “Tally says she can’t make it. Something came up with her boyfriend, Gerit. And…” Her frown deepens. “Looks like Abigail’s stuck picking out bridesmaid dresses with her cousin.” She glances up at Scylla. “I know what this looks like, but I swear I didn’t plan this.”

Scylla chuckles, even as her heart rate speeds up. “I didn’t say anything.”

So it’s just her and Raelle. Alone. Having dinner. As if on cue, the restaurant dims its lights for the dinner crowd, and they both nervously laugh. 

“So,” Scylla says, racking her brain for something to say that can distract them from the sudden awkwardness that descends on them.

“So.”

"You guys have been busy lately.” Work is always a safe subject, Scylla thinks as she picks up a bottle of olive oil from the table and pours some on her saucer. She tears a small chunk off one of the breadsticks, dips it into the oil, and eats it. It’s soft, garlicky, and deliciously savory, and Scylla nearly moans. 

Raelle tears her eyes from Scylla’s lips and helps herself to the bread, too. "Yeah, we’ve been trying to chase down the leads from Tally’s research. Think we're making headway in the case."

"That's terrific."

“After that robbery, I think Quartermaine will have my ass if we don’t solve the case soon.” Raelle takes a big bite out of a bread stick.

“Probably.” Scylla nods. “Anacostia is nothing if not results-driven. Demanding, but fair.” She takes a deep breath, willing to take a chance with Raelle. “It’s what makes her a great mom.”

Raelle practically chokes, coughing so hard that Scylla wonders if she should start performing the Heimlich maneuver. But the server rushes over to give her a glass of water. “Mom?” She asks after she gulps some water down. “Quartermaine doesn’t have kids.”

Scylla bites her lip. “She was my court-appointed guardian, after my parents died in a car accident.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Scylla shakes her head. “She kept me out of a lot of trouble back then. Reminded me to hold on to the good in life, and set me down the right path. And when the guardianship ended, she still watched over me, even when she didn’t have to.”

“That’s um…” Raelle frowns, a mixture of shock and a bit of trepidation flashing across her face, cogs cranking at the realization of what she’s done with the woman who’s like a daughter to her superior officer. “That’s… wow.” 

The server returns with their drinks, and Raelle chugs down nearly half her beer. Scylla can’t help but laugh.

“I’m glad this is so amusing for you.” Raelle swipes at her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Got any other bombs you’d like to drop on me?”

“Maybe.” Scylla grins mischievously. “The night’s still young.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Maybe it’s the buzz from the wine, or the comfort of good food and even better company, but Scylla can’t say no to Raelle when she suggests they take a walk together. It’s the perfect fall evening, with just the right amount of nip in the air. They take their time wandering until they reach the waterfront, where ambient light from old street lamps and restaurants glint off the dark waves of the harbor. 

“So, you’re from Salem?” Raelle asks as they stroll side-by-side, close enough that their shoulders brush on occasion. 

“Born and raised,” Scylla confirms. “After my parents passed, I decided to go to Johns Hopkins and never looked back. Apart from Anacostia, there were just too many painful memories here.”

“I get that.” Raelle hooks her thumbs in her pockets. “It’s part of the reason I left Cherokee after my mom died.”

Scylla’s chest aches in sympathy. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“Not at all.” Raelle takes a deep breath. “She was in the military. A combat medic. Served two tours only to be taken out because she tried to help a convenience store clerk being robbed at gunpoint. Rotten luck, huh?”

Without thinking, Scylla takes Raelle’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “She was very brave.”

“Yeah.” Raelle smiles sadly.

“You take after her,” Scylla doesn’t let go of Raelle’s hand, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

Raelle shrugs. “I try my best.” Her thumb brushes the back of Scylla’s hand, and that light touch is enough to spark a shiver down Scylla’s spine. They turn down one of the older piers. The wooden planks creak beneath their feet. They let each other go when they can’t walk any farther. It’s darker further out on the water, but Raelle’s blonde hair seems to glow in the moonlight.

“Scylla?” Raelle asks.

“Hm?”

“Are we… ever going to talk about it?” Raelle’s voice is quiet, unsure, so unlike her usual cocksure bravado.

Of course, Scylla knows exactly what Raelle’s talking about. It’s been hanging over them for months now, unacknowledged and unsaid. She supposes this conversation is inevitable, no matter how badly she’d rather avoid it.

“I honestly don’t know what to say,” Scylla says. “That night, I was trying to, I don’t know, live a little. In the spur of the moment. It’s not something I’m used to doing.”

“Me neither.” Off Scylla’s incredulous look, Raelle adds, “Look, I know there are lots of rumors about me. But they’re not true.” 

“So you don’t have all-nighters?” Scylla tries not to sound jealous. 

Raelle laughs softly. “That’s not what you think it means.”

“Then enlighten me.” Scylla crosses her arms.

“Sometimes the other detectives need someone to cover a stake out for them. And I volunteer in exchange for little favors.”

“What kind of favors?”

“Oh,” Raelle half shrugs. “Like, finding out someone’s favorite coffee order, for example.”

That’s the last thing she expects Raelle to say and, embarrassed, Scylla scuffs her shoe against the pier. “I see.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” Raelle takes a step closer. “And then you show up at a crime scene, no less. And I thought, maybe it’s fate.”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Scylla says, weakly.

“I didn’t either,” Raelle admits. “Until I met you.”

Scylla’s heart throbs against her ribs. “Raelle…”

“Look, I know you don’t date co-workers. And I respect that, but I just want you to know that night wasn’t just some notch in my belt for me. It was special. _You’re_ special. And I…” 

Scylla surges forward and captures the rest of Raelle’s words with her lips. A beat passes and Raelle places her hands on Scylla’s hips to pull her closer. The kiss deepens and it’s as dizzying as Scylla remembers, like the ground has fallen out from beneath them and they’re free-floating in zero gravity. She clutches at Raelle’s shoulders, the flannel soft beneath her fingertips. When Raelle’s tongue traces her bottom lip, Scylla gasps from the frisson of electricity that jolts through her. It’s too much. Too intense. And she has to take a step back and out of Raelle’s arms. 

“Sorry,” Raelle murmurs, eyes glazed but concerned . 

Scylla shakes her head.”No, I’m sorry.” It’s hard to catch her breath, and she already misses Raelle’s warmth. “I think about that night. Of course, I do. And I panicked that morning and left. I didn’t expect to see you again, either, or that you’d be… you.” She licks her still-tingling lips. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m not very good at letting people in. But you? You make me want to try.” 

Raelle reaches out and cups Scylla’s face with one hand. “There’s no rush.” Her thumb caresses her cheek, and Scylla leans into her palm, eyes closing. “Take as much time as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Raelle drives Scylla home to her apartment building, and it takes all of Scylla’s willpower to stop herself from pulling Raelle inside right then and there, caution be damned. But Raelle’s a true southern gentlewoman and leans over to give Scylla a goodnight peck on the cheek, making sure she’s safely inside before heading home. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Tally calls her the next morning, awfully curious to know how dinner went. Scylla can practically feel Tally’s glee over the line. 

“I told you, Tally, it was fine,” Scylla says as she presses the phone to her ear. “Just a quiet dinner between colleagues.”

“That’s it?” Tally’s disappointment is palpable.

“That’s it.” Scylla feels bad about lying, but she wants to keep whatever she has with Raelle to herself, for now. It’s too new. Too uncertain. A sprout that needs cultivation and shelter. Her cell beeps from a text as Tally begins to talk about Gerit.

Scylla's heart stops when she reads it.

_Raelle Collar: I can’t stop thinking about you._

Affection fills her chest, fuzzy and warm. She types back: _I miss you, too._

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


At work, nothing really changes. On the surface, their normal routine continues and they keep things strictly professional. Raelle drops off a coffee every morning, and Scylla updates the detectives with new autopsy findings when she has them. And, in the rare moments they’re alone, they steal heated kisses that Scylla can feel all the way down to her toes.

Raelle is true to her word, and doesn’t push Scylla for any more than she’s ready to give. They can’t quite say they’re dating, when they have no time to actually go on any. But their pace suits Scylla just fine. Slow and steady.

And their colleagues are none the wiser. Except for Anacostia, who comments at their next lunch, “Something’s different about you. You’re...glowing.”

“I did use a new shampoo recently.” Scylla deflects and flips her hair. “Maybe that’s it?”

Anacostia narrows her eyes. “No, that’s not it.” She spears a piece of kale from her salad. “Collar’s been different lately, too. Calmer. More focused.”

“What does that have to do with me?” 

Humming, Anacostia chews thoughtfully. “What indeed.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Eventually, Abigail calls Scylla into a meeting with Tally and Raelle. They sit around a table in a small meeting room that’s been serving as the command hub for the Windpipe Killer case. Photographs of the victims are taped to multiple white boards that line the walls of the room, with various bits of evidence, timelines, and potential leads are scribbled in blue dry erase marker. 

Abigail nods at Scylla when she enters, Tally waves her hand excitedly, and Raelle gives her a small secret smile that makes Scylla’s heart skip a beat. 

“How can I help you, ladies?” Scylla joins them at a conference table littered with notes, three venti-sized coffee cups, and half-eaten boxes of Chinese takeout.

“Remember when you told me your family helped settle Salem?” Tally asks, typing furiously on her laptop keyboard.

“Sure,” Scylla says. 

“And did you know that one of your ancestors was accused of witchcraft?” Tally looks up, her brown eyes wide. 

Scylla can’t help but laugh. “What?”

Tally swivels her computer screen toward Scylla. It shows lists of names and several family trees. “From your mother’s side, I traced your genealogy to Sarah Cloyce, who was accused but never indicted by a grand jury during the Witch Trials.”

“We’re working on a theory that the killer, whoever he or she may be, is targeting the ancestors of women and men suspected of witchcraft,” Abigail says.

“Right,” Scylla nods. “Tally mentioned that before.”

Tally snaps her fingers. “Yes, but not just any ancestors. The ones who were accused, but either escaped, were pardoned, or were never indicted.” 

“All the victims fit the profile,” Abigail stands and walks toward one of the whiteboards, scrutinizing the picture of Kendall Swythe.

“Okay,” Scylla says. “So you’re saying the killer is, what, trying to finish the job?”

“Bingo,” Raelle finally speaks up. “I knew you were a sharp one, Doc.”

Scylla shakes her head. “Am I in danger of some sort?”

“No,” Raelle quickly reassures her. “Not at all. Unless you’re secretly a member of a Salem witch society. It’s the one common thread we’ve found among all the victims.” She pauses. “Are you?”

“Of course not,” Scylla frowns. “Then why are you telling me this?”

Abigail turns back around, hands held behind her back. “If the killer is among them, we don’t want to tip them off by questioning folks. We need someone to join that group and be our eyes. Someone who can prove their lineage.”

“Who isn’t from a family of well-known law enforcement officials,” Tally inclines her head toward Abigail.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” Raelle says. “But obviously I’d keep you,” she clears her throat and Abigail rolls her eyes. “ _We’d_ keep you safe until we catch this son of a bitch.”

Scylla doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

Raelle blinks in surprise. “Are you sure? If you need some time to think it over...”

“No.” Scylla locks eyes with Raelle. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this was always meant as a one-shot, but I need more time to polish the last third. Hence, the added chapter. Should have that up tomorrow or Sunday! Thank you all so much for the positive response to this little story. It means a lot.


	3. Chapter 3

Anacostia is far from pleased with the plan, prompting her to have a word with Raelle and Abigail. Perhaps “word” is a bit of an understatement. They’re speaking so loudly that Scylla can make out their muffled conversation even from the other side of the glass wall as she approaches Anacostia’s office.

“And if the killer targets her?” Anacostia paces behind her desk, agitation etched in the rigidity of her shoulders and the tense set of her jaw. “What then, Collar?”

“Then I’d protect her!” Raelle snaps, and Scylla’s heart stills.

“You can barely protect yourself,” Anacostia shoots back. The barb hits its mark, dead center, and Raelle visibly flinches, but she doesn’t look away.

Scylla seizes the opportunity to interrupt and raps her knuckles against the door, drawing the attention of all three women. Abigail’s as stoic as ever, lips set in a firm line, while Raelle soften when she sees her. Anacostia’s chest rises and falls on a heaved sigh, and she beckons her inside.

Scylla enters and the tension is heavy, thicker than it seemed from the outside. She stands next to Raelle, whose frustration radiates off her.. 

"Dr. Ramshorn." Anacostia's voice is back to normal decibel levels, though still strained. "Collar and Bellweather have just informed me of their less than ideal course of action. I'd like to get your input."

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re asking,” Scylla says.

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Anacostia replies. “That’s not something to take lightly.” 

"I understand your concern, Sergeant. But with all due respect, we shouldn’t let emotions cloud our judgment.” Anacostia’s gaze is piercing, and Scylla can practically feel Abigail’s curious sidelong glance. Raelle stands frozen in place, eyes forward.

Scylla pushes forward. “Innocent people are dying, and we have a chance to stop it. The benefits far outweigh the risk.”

Nostrils flaring as she forcefully exhales, Anacostia stretches her neck up at the ceiling. “You keep her safe.” The glare she fixes on Raelle and Abigail could puncture steel. “Or your ass is grass. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.

“Get out before I change my mind.” They move to leave. “Except you, Ramshorn, I’d like a word.”

Scylla avoids eye contact with Raelle and Abigail when they walk past. The door closes with a quiet click.

“Don’t you think you were being a little harsh?” Scylla says when they’re alone.

“I don’t like any of this,” Anacostia wearily drops into her desk chair.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Anacostia pinches the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a joke, Scylla. If anything happens to you…”

Scylla knows all too well that Anacostia’s fear stems from the losses she’s faced. It’s what bonded them together all those years ago, when Scylla was too young and too reckless in the wake of tragedy. It’s why Scylla kept others at arm’s length, erecting walls around her heart. But Scylla’s done letting that fear dictate her life. 

“Nothing will happen to me,” Scylla reassures her. 

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I can handle myself. As can your detectives.”

Anacostia inhales slowly, and exhales. She looks like she wants to argue some more, but also knows it's futile when Scylla's set her mind to something. “At the first sign of trouble, you’re out. Deal?”

“Deal.”

  
  


***

  
  


Tally takes care of everything. She contacts the groups on Scylla’s behalf, submits all the necessary proofs of lineage, and eventually secures an invitation for a meet and greet with the Associated Daughters and Sons of Early American Witches. The group congregates at the Salem Witch House, a plain yet severe looking building with dark gray clapboard siding, diamond-paned windows, and a steeply pitched roof that accentuates the three triangular shapes integrated in the home’s facade. 

Raelle drives Scylla to the meeting and idles the car just outside. Scylla knows she has nothing to be worried about. But despite her previous bravado, she’s still nervous, hands so cold she’s lost all feeling in her fingertips. Her left knee bounces as she looks out the passenger-side window.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Raelle rests her hand on top of Scylla’s knee to calm her jitters. The warmth of palm seeps through the fabric of Scylla’s dress pants.

“I’m fine.” Scylla tries to sound convincing. “I’ve just never infiltrated anything before.”

Raelle’s fingers tighten around her knee in a gentle squeeze. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know.” She covers Raelle’s hand with her own. “Listen, about what Anacostia said... She went a little too far”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Raelle breathes out as she looks out into the street.

“Hey.” With her free hand, Scylla gently grasps Raelle’s chin and turns her gaze back toward her. “I trust you.”

Lips quirking up in a small smile, Raelle takes Scylla’s hand and presses a kiss to her palm. “Bells and I will just be down the street if you need anything. Okay?”

“Okay.” Scylla nods and steps out of the car. 

Gathering her courage, she walks up a cobblestone path toward the structure that once served as the home of Jonathan Corwin, one of the more prominent judges during the Witch Trials, according to Tally’s reports. Steeped in such terrible history, an ominous aura surrounds it. And while, logically, Scylla knows that witches and spirits aren’t real--or, at least, not scientifically proven--goosebumps still prickle up her arms. 

When she enters, she’s immediately greeted by a tall and imposing woman, who’s hair is pulled back in a single braid that accentuates her sharp cheekbones. 

“You must be Scylla,” she says. “I’m Sarah Alder. We exchanged emails.” Her handshake is firm and steady.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Scylla says as she follows Sarah through the narrow halls of the main floor. 

“I’m glad you were able to make it.” They bypass several rooms filled with 17th century artifacts, some real, some replicated, ranging from metal plates and cutlery to items allegedly used by witches, such as clay “witch bottles” for keeping evil spirits at bay and doll-like “poppets” that represent their “victims.”

Before long, they enter a sitting room in the back with a large stone hearth and a wooden long table pushed against one wall, covered in various letters and other papers, yellow and tattered with age. About a dozen or so association members are gathered, seated on fold-out chairs arranged in a circle. A blur of introductions and awkward small talk ensues. 

Scylla already knows she won’t be able to remember everyone, but she takes particular note of Gerald, a veterinarian who apparently prefers to be called by his (bizarre) nickname, “Witchfather;” a jovial pediatrician with red hair named Berryessa; an older Asian dentist named Nessa; and a man named Porter, about Scylla’s age, who works as a prison counselor. Porter, in particular, seems oddly familiar, but she can’t quite place why. 

They’re all eager to speak about their ancestors, and Scylla smiles politely and does her best to keep up with their questions about her ties to Sarah Cloyce. She’ll have to thank Tally later for the primer on her predecessor.

“One of the lucky few who got away,” Berryessa comments.

“They’re actually more common than you might think,” Nessa adds. 

Scylla makes a mental note of their interest as the conversation continues to ebb and flow, eventually turning to the more mundane, administrative aspects of running the group. 

“I apologize that you’re not able to meet more of our brothers and sisters. I’m afraid our attendance numbers have been dwindling of late,” Sarah says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Scylla says. “Any particular reason why?” 

Silence falls around the room, thick and uncomfortable. 

Gerald smoothes down his graying beard with his thumb and forefinger. “Dwindling interest in history, I suppose.”

Berryessa leans forward, voice dropping as if she’s sharing a secret. “It’s so bad this year that we haven’t even sold all our tickets to the gala.”

“The gala?” Scylla asks.

“The High Atlantic Charity Gala this Saturday,” Nessa answers. “We participate every year. All proceeds are donated to Salem’s historical sites.”

“You should join us,” Porter speaks up. “We could spare a ticket, right, Sarah?” 

“You’re more than welcome, Scylla,” Sarah agrees. “We can send you the details.”

Scylla shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“Please,” Sarah says. “We insist.”.

“Then, I’ll see you there,” Scylla smiles and Porter’s cheeks flush. 

By the end of the meeting, Scylla’s exhausted. She’s not sure she has anything of substance for the case, but she at least has a few names for the detectives to investigate. Relief washes over her when she finds Raelle waiting for her outside, leaning against the hood of the car. And all Scylla wants to do is steal a kiss when she opens the passenger-side door. 

“So, how’d it go?”

“Good,” Scylla smiles, giving into her desire and leaning in to press a chaste kiss along the scar on Raelle’s cheek. “Do you want to be my date on Saturday night?”

  
  


***

  
  


“I don’t like this,” Anacostia grumbles as Tally outfits Scylla with a “wire” beneath her black dress. “Have I mentioned this already?”

“Only about three dozen times,” Scylla says, her dress half unzipped, the top hanging loosely around her waist “What’s a few dozen more?”

They’re crammed in the back of an unmarked surveillance truck, discreetly parked a few blocks from the gala at the Salem Witch Museum. 

“It’ll be fine, Sarge,” says Abigail, already mic’d up and ready to go in her own evening gown, its vinyl bodice dark and shiny. “You said it yourself. The more eyes and ears we have in there, the better.”

“We’ll see and hear everything in ‘witch’ central.” Tally carefully straps a miniscule microphone and transmitter around Scylla’s waist, and Scylla instinctively jumps at the cold press of the electronics against her skin. “Sorry, all done.”

She pulls her dress back up, pleased that the wire is perfectly hidden beneath its sequins, arranged in a deep v-shape in the sheer mesh of her backless dress. 

When she’s done, Tally hands her a pair of large hoop earrings. “There’s a camera embedded in one of these. Try to keep your head steady, if you can.”

Scylla nods and she puts them in, surprised at how light they feel despite the added technology. 

“How do I look?” Scylla asks when she’s finished.

“Like your dress could use more fabric,” Anacostia mutters while Abigail lets out a low whistle. 

“Rae’s gonna be beside herself,” Tally comments.

“What?” Anacostia head snaps toward Tally. 

“Nothing!”

Anacostia frowns at her watch in agitation. “And just where the hell is Collar?” 

“Said she needed to get something.” Tally slides into a chair, swiveling toward three different computer screens to pull up the feeds from the cameras on Raelle, Scylla, and Abigail. “I strapped her up earlier.” The first two clearly display the interior of the van, while the third shows someone approaching the rear of the truck and reaching out a hand to knock on the door..

“Speak of the devil,” Abigail mutters. She swings it open and glances at Scylla. “You ready?”

“Ready,” she answers, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach.

Anacostia places a hand on her arm, stopping her before she can hop out. “Just remember to be careful, all right?” 

“Don’t worry,” Scylla pats Anacostia’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll be around a long time to prematurely age you.”

“You better.”

Scylla carefully hops out of the back with a helping hand from Abigail, breath catching in her throat when her eyes land on Raelle, who’s holding a single lilac-colored rose in her hands. Her hair’s out of their usual braids, and hangs loose and soft. She’s dressed in a sharp black suit, sleeves scrunched up to her elbows. The plunging neckline of her flesh-colored blouse gives the illusion that she’s not wearing anything underneath her jacket. Scylla forces herself not to stare.

Raelle, however, doesn’t have similar qualms. Her eyes drink in Scylla from head to foot and, for once, seems speechless. “Wow, you look…” 

“You clean up nicely, Detective,” Scylla says when she finds her voice again.

“Even I’m shocked,” Abigail comments, eyebrows raised.

Flipping off Abigail with one hand, Raelle hands the rose to Scylla with the other. “This is for you.”

Scylla twirls the smooth stem between her fingers. “Thank you.” She brings the petals to her nose and inhales its sweet scent.

“You two are nauseating,” Abigail says with mock indignation.

“I should probably leave this here.” Scylla turns back around to Anacostia, who’s scowling from the back of the van, and Tally, who unabashedly grins.

“Does it look like we have water and a vase in here?” Anacostia grouses.

“Don’t worry,” Tally assures her and takes the rose. “We’ll keep it safe.” 

Raelle offers Scylla her arm, and Scylla links her own into the crook of Raelle’s elbow. And if she happens to move closer to Raelle, well, she can justify it from the chill in the air.

  
  


***

  
  


The gala’s in full swing when they pass through the arched double doors of the brownstone-and-brick museum, which reminds Scylla of a strange hybrid between a castle and a church. The main floor’s been cleared of most of its exhibits, giving the popular tourist trap an open, almost ballroom-like atmosphere for the High Atlantics to mingle and dance and drink their way into spending thousands of dollars on early settlement artifacts.

Raelle’s hand rests on the small of Scylla’s back as they make their way through the crowds, warm and steady, and doesn’t remove it until Abigail introduces Scylla to her mother, Salem’s chief of police. She’s as stern and regal as she appears in televised press conferences, perhaps even more so. Many other Bellweathers are also in attendance, including Abigail’s cousin, Charvel, and her fiancé, Ciro Hood. 

“Dr. L’Amara speaks very highly of you, Dr. Ramshorn,” Petra says when they shake hands. “And I have to say we’ve been very impressed with your work.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Scylla says, flushing slightly from the compliment and the proud smile Raelle beams her way. “It’s an honor to work with Dr. L’Amara and for an excellent police department.”

“Maybe we can make it permanent.” Petra accepts a flute of champagne from a server passing by with a tray. “There may be room in the budget to hire another permanent pathologist in the medical examiner’s office next year, if you’re interested.” 

The offer catches Scylla off-guard, and Raelle watches her switch interest. She had always assumed she would leave Salem once her fellowship ended. But now... “I would be interested,” Scylla nods gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Petra smiles before she’s called away, and Abigail goes with her.

Raelle and Scylla continue onward toward buffet tables filled with canapés, cheese, fruit, and a wide assortment of hors d’oeuvres. 

“We should probably split up.” Raelle pops a few berries into her mouth. “Cover more ground. Will you be okay on your own?”

“Somehow, I’ll find a way to manage.” Scylla eyes a tray filled with lobster claws.

Raelle flashes a grin before she disappears into the crowd. 

  
  


***

  
  


As the night continues, a few association members greet Scylla. Berryessa gushes over her dress, while Nessa introduces Scylla to her daughter, an Army soldier who’s home on furlough. Scylla hasn’t yet spotted Sarah or Gerald. 

Scylla eventually finds herself wandering the exhibits of the side halls, just to escape the commotion of the gala and have a few minutes to herself to recuperate. She comes across one display that catches her eye. Behind the glass is a noose and an array of 17th century weapons, including a curved blade set in a cross-shaped, ivory hilt. The placard next to it reads: _Camarilla Scythe, circa 1693._

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” A voice says behind her.

Scylla turns to see Charvel Bellweather and Ciro Hood approach, arm-in-arm. Together, they make a striking couple, reminding Scylla of a Disney princess and prince who stepped out of a movie screen.

“The violence that stems from fear and hate.” Charvel comes to stand next to Scylla, peering inside the case. “Hundreds of years later and we still haven’t learned our lesson.”

“That’s very true,” Scylla agrees. 

“To play devil’s advocate,” Ciro starts.

Charvel rolls her eyes. “The devil doesn’t need an advocate.”

“I’m just saying,” Ciro raises his hands. “They were doing what they thought was best to protect their people.”

“By killing the innocent?” Charvel scrunches up her face. 

“We don’t know they were innocent,” Ciro says.

“Oh? And how exactly do you go about proving someone’s a witch?” Charvel turns toward Scylla. “What do you think, Doctor?”

They walk to another case, which contains old bibles, treatises, and letters. 

“Some historians believe that the witch trials were caused by ergot,” Scylla traces her fingers across the glass. “A fungus that can grow rye and wheat. When consumed, it can cause delusions and muscle spasms. Things that early colonists might consider a witch’s curse.”

“See?” Charvel nudges Ciro.

“It doesn’t hurt to understand where the settlers were coming from,” Ciro insists. 

“Sure. Are you going to try to understand that Windpipe Killer who’s been going after our families, too?” Charvel asks. “I’m sure that murderer has their twisted reasons.”

“There is no right or wrong, only a difference in perspective,” Ciro says, eyeing the books with interest.

“If you say so.” Charvel shrugs.

One open tome depicts a drawing of Camarilla soldiers executing “witches.” The black and white drawings are gruesome. A shiver runs down Scylla’s spine. 

  
  


***

  
  


Later, when Scylla tries to find Raelle and Abigail, she comes across Porter instead. He's nervous and awkward in his eagerness, but endearing. Scylla has to admit he’s handsome in his tuxedo, even a bit dashing. 

“You made it!” He moves in for a hug, and Scylla awkwardly pats his broad shoulders. “How do you like everything?”

“It’s incredible, but a little overwhelming,” Scylla answers honestly. 

"You get used to it." He rakes his fingers through his golden curls. "I didn't know how to mention this at the meeting, but... you don't remember me, do you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Salem High?” He smiles shyly. “We graduated in the same class together."

That's when it clicks--the reason he had seemed so familiar.

"Porter! We had chemistry together, right?"

She remembers he was fairly popular, sporty. Perhaps he played soccer. Or was it lacrosse?

He nods, pleased. "It's been a while. We missed you at the 10-year reunion."

"I was finishing up my residency," Scylla explains. "Hard to get away." It’s mostly true, though she could have taken a weekend, if she really had wanted.

“Maybe we could catch up more with a dance?”

His face is so openly expectant, Scylla almost feels guilty about turning him down. Perhaps if they had met at some other time, before a certain blonde, and blue-eyed detective had wandered into her life, Scylla would have said yes. 

But before Scylla can answer, a hand slides across her back, electrifying the skin exposed from the low cut of her dress.

“Actually, she’s spoken for.” Raelle appears beside her and thrusts out her other hand. “Raelle Collar.”

Porter hesitantly shakes her hand. “Porter Tippett. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were here with someone.”

Raelle curls her arm around Scylla's waist and rests her hand lightly on her hip. “Ready to go?”

“I’m sorry, Porter,” Scylla says. “Maybe we can catch up a little later?”

She doesn’t catch Porter’s response because Raelle’s already pulling her toward the dance floor. Once there, amid the other swaying couples, Raelle pulls her close, gently cradling Scylla’s left hand with her right. Scylla lightly rests her other hand on Raelle’s shoulder as they move to a slow and mellow melody played by a jazz band. 

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” The blue of Raelle’s eyes seem more intense than usual. 

Scylla’s eyes narrow slightly. “Would you care if you did?”

“No.” Raelle half smiles. “But I wouldn’t get in the way again if that’s what you wanted.”

“He’s not who I want,” Scylla admits, and Raelle’s expression softens. “Did you find anything?”

"No. You?"

"There were witch hunters called the Camarilla. Might be relevant. Tally will probably have a run down by the time the night's through.

Raelle hums softly as they continue to dance, cheek-to-cheek. She smells of dark vanilla and sandalwood, and Scylla nuzzles the crook of Raelle’s neck to breathe more of her in. 

"Can I ask you something?" Raelle asks after one song ends and another starts up.

"Of course." 

"Earlier, with Petra, were you actually interested in that position or were you just being polite?” Raelle whispers. 

“I’m interested." Scylla closes her eyes.

“I thought Salem had too many painful memories for you."

"It does. It did. But I'm making new ones. Happy ones." She skims her lips against the edge of Raelle's jaw, unable to stop the slow spread of her smile when Raelle's breath hitches. 

When Raelle rests the side of her head against hers, Scylla revels in the way they fit so perfectly together, her heart contracting and expanding with affection. And she wonders what she’s waiting for. Why she’s holding happiness at arm’s length when she could finally embrace it.

She makes a decision. 

“Rae,” Scylla whispers, a confession hanging from the tip of her tongue.

The lights cut out.

The museum plunges into darkness. 

Startled shrieks erupt around them while the organizers shout for everyone to keep calm.

“Shit,” Raelle curses, grip tightening on Scylla’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.” She begins leading her through the panicked crowd, but the push and pull of packed bodies trying to rush out at once causes them to lose contact.

“Scyl?” She hears Raelle call out in the din.

Scylla’s about to respond and make a blind break for the exit when she feels a stinging prick against her neck, and then feels nothing at all.

  
  


***

  
  


Throbbing pain radiates from Scylla’s head and down her neck as she regains consciousness. She cracks her eyes open. Everything’s blurred, and she tries to blink away the haze to no avail. Wherever she is, it’s dark and cold and reeks of decomposing flesh. The putrid scene is unmistakable and Scylla gags. 

“Hey,” a woman says from her left, panic lacing her words. “Hey, are you awake?” 

“Yeah.” Scylla’s mouth is so dry it’s hard to speak. “Where… where are we?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of freaky murder lair or something.”

“What?” Scylla tries to move, but finds she can’t. She’s handcuffed to a bar on the wall, still in her evening wear. The tight metal bites into her wrist, and the sharp sting helps the room slowly come into focus.

They're in a windowless room with cinderblock walls. A basement, perhaps? The young woman who spoke is to her right, similarly bound to a chair. Her long dark hair is mussed, her eyeliner smudged, and her deep violet dress torn in spots. Meanwhile, another woman is strapped to a gurney, unconscious, with no visual wounds. Both of her arms are hooked up to IV lines.

Scylla recognizes her immediately: Charvel Bellweather. There’s a tray next to her with syringes and surgical equipment.

“Oh my god, we got caught by the Windpipe Killer,” the woman says, hysterical. “That’s what this is, right? The Windpipe Killer?”

“We have to stay calm,” Scylla says even though her heart is about two seconds from pounding out of her chest. “I’m Scylla Ramshorn.”

“Glory Moffett,” she says. “I can’t believe we’re going to die. I’m too young to die!”

“No one’s going to die, Glory.” Scylla glances down, stomach sinking when she notices that her dress is torn at the midriff. The wire is gone. Shit. She shakes her head. Her earrings are still on. That’s something, at least. “Someone will find us.”

"Like, our dead bodies?"

"No," Scylla insists. She hopes the camera is still able to send a signal. "Tally? I hope you can see this," she whispers.

"Tally?" Glory asks. "Who's Tally?!"

The door swings open, and Glory shrieks. Three hooded figures enter, menacing in their dark cloaks. None speak as one approaches Charvel while the other two stand guard over Glory and Scylla.

“If you’re trying to contact your colleagues at the SPD, I’m afraid we removed this long before we left the gala.” The one closest to her lifts the camera that had been strapped to her body, and drops it on the floor. It crunches beneath his boot.

She feels like she’s heard his voice before.

"Who are you?" Metal clanks against metal as Scylla struggles against her handcuffs. “Why are you doing this?”

“To finish what our ancestors started, Dr. Ramshorn.” He pulls down his hood. “And purge impure blood tainted by the devil.”

“Gerald?” Scylla can’t believe it.

“You know this freak?!” Glory squeaks. The hooded figure next to her unsheaths a curved dagger and holds it to Glory’s neck.

“Witchcraft isn’t real, Gerald,” Scylla says as calmly as possible even as her throat tightens with panic. “You’re delusional.”

“The public are the ones who are deluded,” Gerald says. “We are doing the Lord’s work.”

“What about Sarah?” Scylla asks. “What have you done to her?”

Gerald smirks. “My dear friend will get what’s coming to her, like the rest of you.” He turns toward Charvel. “Ciro, if you’ll please.”

Scylla mouth drops open.

“Ciro Hood?” Glory exclaims. “Aren’t you her fiancé? You’re like a power couple. How can you do this?!”

“A necessary evil to get close to the Bellweathers,” Ciro says, as he picks up one of the syringes and points the needle toward the ceiling, flicking the barrel. “To protect us all.”

“Oh goddess,” Glory moans.

“Don’t!.” Scylla cries out, fear courses like ice through her veins. “Please. Take me first.”. 

“All in due time, Dr. Ramshorn,” Gerald says. “All in due time.”

Ciro brings the syringe closer to the access port of one of the IV tubes. Just as he’s about to insert it, a loud bang rattles the ceiling, followed by the rumbling of dozens of footsteps. He freezes as Gerald barks at them that they have to evacuate.

“How did they find us?” Ciro asks. 

Gerald backhands Scylla. Her head snaps back, the taste of copper filling her mouth.

“We have to go,” the third killer says. A woman. Scylla doesn’t recognize her voice.

“But Bellweather,” Ciro protests.

“Leave her,” Gerald orders, taking out his own dagger. “Wick, take Moffett.”

“We should just kill them all,” Wick says. 

“No, the police won’t touch us if it means endangering one of their own.” He uncuffs Scylla and hauls her to her feet, while Wick does the same with Glory. “Try anything and we’ll slit Moffett’s throat.”

With a bruising grip on her arm, he shoves her toward the door. They’re forced down a dark hall when a shout rings out, “SPD, freeze!!!”

Earsplitting gunshots crack in the air.

Glory screams.

Gerald yanks Scylla to him and turns them around. The edge of the cold blade presses against her neck. She can make out two bodies on the floor. Glory cowers in a ball on the ground as beams of light rush toward her. .

“Hold your fire!” A familiar voice rings out, and Scylla’s heart hammers against her ribs.

_Raelle._

Gerald walks them backwards. “Stop right there,” he shouts. 

Raelle stops. The light from her flashlight is blinding. 

“It’s over, Gardner.” Raelle’s voice is cold and harsh. She creeps forward with her gun raised. “Let her go.”

“One more step, and the SPD will have one less employee.” Gerald knicks a patch of Scylla’s skin, and she cries out. 

Raelle lowers her weapon slightly, enough so that the glare of her light isn’t as harsh. Scylla can just make out the storm swirling in a sea of blue. Scylla nods imperceptibly..

_I trust you._

The shot thunders out. 

In a flurry of activity that comes too quickly for her to process, Scylla finds herself falling backward onto the floor, still clutched in a dead man’s grasp. They crash to the ground, knocking the air clean out of Scylla’s lungs. She manages to peel herself away, heart thundering so hard her head pounds in sync, and the next thing Scylla knows, gentle hands are tenderly brushing hair from her face. 

“Scyl?”

All she can see are blue eyes filled with concern. She collapses forward and a pair of strong arms wraps around her.

“Rae…” She buries her head in Raelle’s chest, grasping her shoulders. 

“I’ve got you,” Raelle clutches her tight. “I’ve got you.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Sirens and flashing blue lights fill the aftermath. Scylla doesn’t remember walking from the house. Or letting the paramedics poke and prod her to make sure she’s okay. It all goes by in a blur. Tally hugs her tight, and Anacostia holds her even tighter, while Raelle works to secure the crime scene with Abigail and their fellow officers. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Anacostia drapes a thin blanket over Scylla’s shoulders. 

“Yeah,” Scylla nods. “What about Glory and Charvel?”

“Moffett’s a little shaken up, but no worse for wear,” Anacostia confirms. “Abigail went with Charvel to the hospital, but it sounds like she’ll be just fine.”

“That’s a relief.” Scylla pulls the blanket around her tighter as Anacostia leads her to a squad car. 

“So,” Anacostia starts as they lean against the trunk. “You and Collar were putting on quite the show before everything went to hell. Craven was beside herself.”

Scylla’s cheeks heat up. “I just escaped from three serial killers, could you maybe wait to grill me about my girlfriend?”

"Girlfriend, huh?" Anacostia chuckles. “She makes you happy?”

“Very.” Happy is an understatement. Raelle got her to notice her heart again for the first time in a long time. 

“Then I won’t bust her chops. But if she ever hurts you...”

“I won’t,” comes Raelle’s voice. 

Scylla's breath catches.

“Good.” Nodding, Anacostia squeezes Scylla’s shoulder. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.” As she passes Raelle, she claps her on the back. “You did good, Collar.”

Scylla steps back into Raelle’s arms when she’s close, succumbing to the gravitational pull between them. 

"Will you stay with me?” Scylla rests her forehead against Raelle's.

"Of course." Raelle rubs soothing circles up and down Scylla's back. 

“All night?”

“As long as my _girlfriend_ wants me.” Raelle’s grin is bright enough to chase away the shadows of the night. 

Groaning, Scylla hides her face against Raelle’s shoulder. “You heard that?”

“I did.” Raelle presses her lips to Scylla’s hair. 

“Is that… okay?”

“Scyl, look at me.” Raelle cradles Scylla’s face between her hands, holding her gaze, eyes deep like the ocean. “I’ve wanted nothing more since that first night we met.” 

Tears slip down Scylla’s cheeks as she leans forward and kisses Raelle, warmth unfurling inside her chest. 

“Just so you know, I expect chocolate chip pancakes in the morning,” Scylla says when they pull apart. “They better be as good as you say they are, or it's a deal breaker. Got it?"

Raelle only laughs. "Got it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to post this last bit. (I have nothing but The Last of Us 2 to blame for taking up the time I normally use for writing. It's a marvelous game, btw.) Hopefully this little story brought a smile to your faces, and thanks as always for all the support!


End file.
